Relapse
by Ifyousaysodearie
Summary: Bored and lonely Sherlock falls back to his old heroin habit to find some sense of comfort for a night.
1. Chapter 1

It was a beautiful thing, Sherlock decided, reconnecting with the bliss that was heroin. He had little trouble finding it once he decided upon indulging in a brief relapse. Though others would disagree he found nothing wrong with his choice to go back into the warmth and numbness of the drug. He had little motivation to stay sober between the lack of any case on the horizon and the loneliness he was feeling now that John was with Mary so often.

Upon returning to 221B Baker street Sherlock nearly bounded up the stairs to avoid any contact with or suspicion from Mrs. Hudson. Locking the door to his flat behind him and retrieving the small bag of heroin from his trouser pocket. A small smile curled the corners of his lips, his eyes alight as he admired the powder inside the clear plastic. He placed it on the coffee table beside the sofa and went to find his tools. Going upstairs to the second bedroom that belonged to John he went over to the window and knelt down prying up the loose floor board. No one ever thought to look here, they were always searching his room for signs of the drugs but John was not an addict. Plucking up the board and smirking down at the small black case that was still hidden in its place. Opening the box to inspect it he was not surprised to find the contents exactly as he had left them. Inside was two clean needles and the spoon he favored to cook his heroin on. He headed back downstairs and into the bathroom, grabbing a cue tip and a small bit of water before heading back into the parlor.

He sat down in on the sofa and began to set everything up as he needed it, measuring out a little over half of the bag onto the spoon and adding only the slightest bit of water to help it dissolve. Taking out a pack of cigarettes and a torch from his other trouser pocket he began to heat the metal of the underside of the spoon. Eyes carefully examining it as his wrist delicately swirled the small pool of solution on the metal, watching it come together nicely. Sherlock could not wipe the expression of excitement from his lips, delighted with his own handiwork. Carefully, very carefully he set down the spoon on the table and hastily prepared the needle. With the greatest gentility he let the now liquid heroin pour into the chamber. His long, clever fingers flicking the glass as he expertly removed any air pockets and let the drugs cool a bit.

Rolling up his left sleeve he studied his veins, looking for one that was primed for injection. His pale skin let him find a beautiful, thick purple-blue vein as his right hand held the needle oh so ready to enjoy himself once again. Sherlock rarely thought of himself as a happy person but despite the problems it had caused he remembered the happiness that came with every high from the precious few milliliters inside the hypodermic needle. With a steady hand he eased it towards his flesh, aiming with absolute precision he let the cold metal pierce his milky skin.

The acute sting that came from the needle only went noticed because it was a sign that he was close to what he wanted. His thumb slowly began to press at the stopper and he watched the mixture empty into his blood stream, a small amount of blood pooling inside of the needle once it was emptied. Removing it and setting it back upon the table he leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes. Letting out a long soft sigh of pleasure as his body was enveloped in that familiar warm kiss of his mistress, heroin. The drugs quickly coursed inside of him and he felt his muscles release every bit of tension that they had been holding on to for so long, for too long.

Sherlock opened his eyes, his apartment seemed hazy as his mind thankfully slowed even just the slightest. He doubted most people could truly appreciate the quiet mind that came with the intense high of it all. Soon even that thought was quieted as he sat staring blankly around the room. His eye lids felt heavy as he took in his surroundings, looking to the skull on the mantle and letting the smallest of laughs. He would pay for this later if Mycroft ever found out that he had relapsed but in this moment of sheer bliss he could not care. He was no longer bored, he no longer was lonely or thinking of his crime-solving partner. He was happy and numb even if it was artificial and to Sherlock that was a beautiful thing indeed.


	2. Who needs friends?

Sherlock felt himself slipping in and out of conscientiousness as the heroin reached it's peak. His limbs felt strangely detached as he wiggled his fingers in a subdued sort of awe. This was one thing that never got old, it never bored him or disappointed him not once. Sitting up to tidy up the evidence from his little excursion back into addiction before anyone could happen upon him unexpectedly. Standing and boxing the needle once again, tucking what was left of the fine powder inside the case as well as he went to the bookshelf. Hiding the dark box behind several books and turning to face the record player. His hands pressed together, finger tips held to his lips as he was lost in a thoughtful daze about what sort of music to pick. Finally he settled on 'The Doors: Strange Days' it felt appropriate and anyone who was familiar to being in the unearthly numb that was heroin knew that this music was perfect for the occasion. Settling down on the sofa again and drifting off into a much needed sleep.

Hours later he heard a key enter the lock, it stirred him slightly and then suddenly he realized that his sleeve was still rolled up. Noticing the pack of cigarettes just in time as well and chucking them across the room to be unnoticed in a pile of junk. Quickly he fixed his shirt and fastened the buttons a bit clumsily around his wrist just in time for John to walk in. "Evening." the man nodded as he entered the flat.

"Evening." Sherlock replied with a small nod.

"You were there last night when I left," Watson observed seeing that Sherlock had not even changed his outfit. "Have you not moved since I left?" His tone was incredulous, he did not understand how such a sloth like man was so slender.

"Afraid not." Sherlock lied glad that his usual nature would play along to his still drugged body.

"I'm shocked you haven't fused into the couch." John scoffed and headed into the kitchen. "Tea?" he called back to the other man.

"Yes." Holmes replied simply.

His mind was racing, surely John would notice after they spent so much time together, he was caught. Surely his pupils would be dilated and his skin slightly clammy. Still Sherlock stayed calm and lazed on the sofa as he heard John being busied in the kitchen. After several minutes the man came into the room two tea cups in hand, his lanky arms reaching for the drink gladly careful not to make eye contact with his friend.

"Are you alright?" John asked curiously.

His heart began to race, he was discovered of course but he was going to deny it in any way that he could. "Why do you ask?" he took a long draw of tea.

"Well Sherlock I've been here a whole of five minutes with out being called an idiot. Should I be worried?" A friendly grin was worn on Watson's face.

The man still lost in a heroin haze halted his brain to realize that the other man was joking. Of course he was, perhaps the drugs had worn off enough by now that he seemed normal? "I'm fine," Sherlock said flatly, "And you're an idiot, if that makes you feel better."

"It does and it doesn't." John shook his head slightly amused by the quip. "I know I haven't been around much today but I'm spending the night at Mary's. Need anything at the grocery before I head out?" He always was concerned with feeding the svelte detective since he seemed to forget to eat so often.

"I'm perfectly capable of shopping for myself." Sherlock's voice held a tiny tone of contempt. "Why do you need to spend the night there?" He probed.

Watson frowned and furrowed his brow, "Surely I don't have to explain to you again the concept of sex." Setting his tea down on the coffee table and waiting for the expected apathy from the brilliant yet somehow ignorant man on the sofa.

Holding up one hand as if to halt John mid thought, "No, I understand that much. Why do you need the whole night?"

John's expression changed to that of bemusement. "Oddly enough women don't like it when you shag and run Sherlock." A small laugh held in his voice.

"Oh dear god, how boring your life must be." Sherlock's gaze met the ceiling as he rolled his eyes.

Comments like that never went well with Watson, he should have known better. After a moment of rather tense silence there was the sound of an annoyed sigh. "At least I'm doing something…or someone rather. You've been on that couch now what twenty hours?"

It had been less than that of course since Sherlock had gone to purchase his precious powder but he would not correct John. "Your point being?"

"How the bloody hell could you call spending the night with a woman boring when you have been sitting on your arse all day?" Anger peppering John's voice now.

Sherlock said nothing and yet another sigh came from his friend. "I can't stay long, I just came to make sure that you hadn't melted into the furniture yet."

"Kind of you." Sherlock spoke sardonically setting his tea down as well now. He threw his body back on the sofa rather dramatically to communicate his lack of amusement that John felt the need to stay away another night.

"I should be going." John's voice barely audible as he tried to keep it even. "I'll have my cell on if Lestrade needs us for any reason."

Standing he walked his cup to the sink and emptied the remainder of the tea into it. Thinking to himself that the other man seemed upset maybe even jealous of the fact that he would be gone again. "Are you sure you don't want me to stop at the grocery?" He asked as he reappeared into the parlor.

"Positive." Sherlock spoke coldly, "Wouldn't want to keep you of course, besides I'm not hungry."

"Of course you're not." John breathed exasperatedly as he made his way to the door. "Call me if you need me." His hurried himself out of the flat as soon as he said that.

Several moments passed and Sherlock was fuming that he was left alone to his own devices yet again tonight. Soon the anger dissipated as he realized his own devices meant he would be able to finish the drugs he had purchased earlier. If John was busy shagging for three minutes and then stuck there for the night then he would have all the time in the world to enjoy his taboo pleasure. He made his way to the bathroom, in less of a hurry this time he remembered he should swab himself with alcohol if he wished to avoid infections from the injections.

Retrieving the black box from behind the books and setting it on the table, he locked the flat door again. Settling in on the couch, glad he had a second needle that was already sterilized so he didn't have to waste that energy. If he was going to be bored and going to sin anyhow he might as well do it all the way. He began to prepare what was left of his heroin as he thought to himself that of course John did not notice anything was awry, he didn't care. He had Mary now, he had some one to occupy his mind and time and was in a rush so the small signals of drug use were lost on him. If only Mycroft cared what he did then Sherlock saw no reason to hesitate in his own remedy for boredom. As he heated the spoon a second time he was glad to be alone, John could stay gone for all he cared at that moment. He had his habit, his old companion, his heroin who needed friends when you could be numb?


	3. Chapter 3

After hours of looming sleepiness Sherlock had given in again. He slept as soundly as he had in a long while strewn on the sofa. Waking with the first light of the morning shining in through the windows. Stretching and blinking looking down at the table still dazed from the drugs. His eyes were scanning the room to help break him out of dreams and back into reality. Looking down to the table he saw that he had gone through nearly half of the fresh pack of cigarettes last night and that the little box that held his paraphernalia was out as well. Suddenly in that instant he was glad that John was distracted for the entire night.

After several long minutes he forced himself from the sofa and began to hide the evidence from his venture last night. Throwing the windows open to attempted to air out the distinct scent of Lambert and Butler's fair grade Imperial Tobacco. Looking to the clock he saw that he had barely been awake for ten minutes and he was already bored with the day. Looking around the flat for something to occupy him, failing to find anything that held his interest. Sighing and turning a bit dramatically on his heel, heading into the shower; that should pass some time.

Sherlock turned on the water, letting it warm as he looked into the mirror above the sink. His long fingers combing through his hair for a moment before he shed his clothing carelessly onto the floor. Wondering when John might be home or if he would be out for the entire day again. It had now been three days with out any sign of a case, it was still early though perhaps an exciting homicide happened in the middle of the night. The bathroom began to fill with steam, he had evidently lost himself in thought as he composed hypothetical scenarios in his mind of what disasters might have happened in his sleep. Stepping into the shower and relaxing his body into the heat of the water. Sherlock's brow was furrowed in thought even as he washed, it was simply something that he could not turn off.

When he was done with the shower he was nearly despondent seeing that it was not even eight A.M yet. "Bored." Sherlock spoke aloud to himself, "Utterly bloody bored." his deep voice fell into a sad sort of whisper. Going to his laptop he began to read the headlines from the night before. A woman was stabbed on the tube, video surveillance caught the assailant; boring. A drunk car crash in Trafalgar Square, two dead and another in the hospital; dismal and boring. A missing woman who clearly had run off and was not missing by the look of the husband in the photo he was drunk and possibly abusive; absolutely tedious.

Slamming the lid of his computer shut and pushing away from his desk. Sherlock restlessly went to his cellphone and saw no missed messages, no leads, nothing to focus on. He decided to try to watch one of those crap telly shows that John seemed to like so much in the morning. Turning it on barely able to focus for a moment as the female host prattled on about how to make a spinach scramble. Deducing her to entertain himself even for a brief moment, she was nearly 40 though had enough surgery that some might think her in her early 30's. She was well dressed of course but her outfit was almost garish, she clearly wanted to take the attention off of her co-host who was dressed in neutral colors. She was pregnant, early stages, he doubted that she knew yet by the bit of bloat on her face that contrasted her fit frame. She was married, happily though it was clearly in the very early stages of that marriage. When the show cut to a commercial he knew that this was not going to do.

Eyeing his cell again Sherlock considered the day he had ahead of him. If nothing came up he could hardly stay like this for too long. It was maddening to have his mind racing and to be left to his own methods of entertainment. Before he had even realized what he was doing he was up walking out the door heading to find someone in his homeless network who could find both cocaine and heroin.

Having no desire to keep sleeping but wanting to slow his brain enough to stop the grinding he felt inside of it. Sherlock was going to speed-ball his way through this horrible, boring day. The drugs helped yesterday go by so quickly and he knew they would not fail him even when all else did. Finding Tommy, a slightly intelligent young man who was well connected and did a fair amount of business in this trade. Sherlock had thought before that Tommy would be quite wealthy if he wasn't lost in the throws of a rather serious and expensive habit of his own. As he expected the other man had what he wanted even as early as it was; he really was an excellent businessman for a homeless person.

After he had what he wanted he headed back towards Baker Street, hailing a taxi. Mid-route his cell made a small noise to indicate that he had received at text. Retrieving the phone he read

'Sherlock, the flat stinks. I thought you had quit cigarettes.'

Rolling his eyes, he typed without looking. 'Clearly not- SH'.

Of course it stunk in the flat, he should have had the windows opened last night but he was far too lethargic to care. Still smelling smoke didn't mean too much, it should be expected at this point when ever he was without distraction for more than a day. 'Seriously Sherlock did you smoke an entire pack while I was out?'

'Half a pack- SH' Sherlock corrected John and looked out the taxi window suddenly a bit anxious. He had counted on being alone for a bit longer, John must have had a row with Mary or else he would still be in bed.

Soon the cab had turned onto Baker street and Sherlock paid his fare and headed inside. Greeted by the less than amused look from his flatmate and the rather pungent scent of aerosol spray. "You think that smells better than the tobacco then?" Sherlock asked with clear distaste in his tone.

"Yes. Yeah I do, probably going to get cancer from them both might as well smell like a garden." John's voice rang of exasperation. "Where were you off so early anyhow?"

Sherlock hesitated for only a moment as he sized up the expression on his friends face. Suspicion, clearly but also concern, "Went out for some coffee." He lied cooly.

"We have coffee in the flat," John looked at him puzzled, not knowing Sherlock to leave unless he absolutely had to. "And where is it then?"

"Drank it." Sherlock kept his answers short, only lies had details. "I was bored so I left." That much had been true at the very least. He was suddenly very aware of the fact that he was hiding drugs on his person. Did John have any idea that he might have gone out to get them? No, he wouldn't be being so passive with his suspicion. Still it was unsettling knowing that he might be discovered by the good doctor. He was going to have to hide them well at any rate just in case, no need to get caught in his little relapse. That would be a head-ache that Sherlock would rather not deal with at all.

"Alright, well then any leads from Lestrade?" John inquired heading into the kitchen.

"I'd have phoned you." Sherlock sighed, angry almost at being reminded of the lack of things to do.

When his friend came back from the kitchen he was sipping his own cup of coffee. "I think you need to get a hobby." he looked to the clearly restless detective.

"A hobby? I have a hobby, in case you've forgotten the pair of us share the same hobby." Sherlock spoke with an exasperated tone as if offended at the idea that he had brought this boredom on himself.

Shaking his head John frowned, "I mean an actual hobby, a collection or building model planes."

Sherlock scoffed, "Oh yes I'm going to spend my time gathering stamps into a little booklet or putting together tedious tiny, non-functional scale models because somehow that would be more stimulating than gouging out my own eyes."

"A simple no would have done." John looked away from him and pulled his laptop closer to him, still looking at Sherlock even as he pretended to look to the screen.

Even this conversation was frustratingly boring and he thought again to the small plastic bags inside his coat pocket. Throwing himself onto the sofa and looking to the ceiling, it was torture having the solution to his problem but not being able to use it. Many minutes of silence stretched out between the pair of them and John looked to the clock on the mantle. "I've got to go into the surgery for a bit. Text me if anything comes up will you?" His tone seemed to hold a familiar timber of longing. Sherlock smirked at this, good at least John was bored as well.

"Yes." He replied simply letting the other man know that he would contact him if anything interesting like a murder happened.

John left and a childish sort of glee flooded Sherlock's entire being. He was going to be able to distract himself exactly how he wanted to after all. Today might be better than he thought, locking the door to the flat and going to retrieve his little black box once again.


	4. Discovered

His dalliance with relapse quickly became a full blown habit. Where he once resented John for being gone so often, he was now grateful for the time he had on his own. If he was alone there would be no one to catch on and he could be high in peace. The routine and rush of it all was addicting as well, dodging Mycroft's cameras about the city was a task in its own. He had seamlessly orchestrated himself straight into addiction again and it felt like home. For hour swaths of time he was numb, his mind slowed from its normal breakneck speed. He paid careful mind to when he thought John would be around at first but as he fell deeper into the drugs he began to care less and less about being caught. When he was high nothing seemed to matter much really.

Sherlock managed to buy enough to get through most of the weekend but by Sunday afternoon he had run dry of heroin and his stash of cocaine was in short supply as well. Peeling himself from his mattress he stumbled into the shower, the water running scalding hot. He really could care less about taking the shower but he knew if he was spotted outside looking disheveled and unbathed that it would be a dead giveaway. Washing up as quickly as he could muster his muscles to move, he dried himself before putting on a crisp outfit. To the naked eye he might look like an upstanding citizen, perhaps a bit over tired due the slight suggestion of bags under his eyes but he certainly did not look like a junkie. That's what he was of course, a junkie, he always had been in one way or another. He knew better than to text his dealer ahead of time, intercepting a text message was child's play for Mycroft.

Sherlock hoofed it across the city, it took longer than it should due to his having to dodge cameras. The drugs were waning from his system and he felt the anxiety of withdrawal creeping upon him. Weaving through alleys until he found who he was looking for, exchanging money for Cocaine, Heroin and a bit of Marijuana. Sherlock was nothing short of overjoyed when he had the drugs in hand, tucking them away carefully before heading back to the flat. On the way he stopped at a corner store and bought a fresh pack of cigarettes, some rolling papers and a prepackaged pastry with an obnoxiously optimistic looking red-headed girl on it. Opiates always made him crave sweets even as it helped suppress his appetite for food that might hold some actual nutritional value.

Once he came back home he made quick work of getting his tools ready. He needed to clean them which he did hastily. When the needles were thoroughly disinfected Sherlock retreated to his bedroom. Opening the window preemptively this time so that he wouldn't stink up the flat again with stale cigarette smoke. He fastidiously began to cook up the heroin solution adding a tiny bit of cocaine and making sure that dissolved fully as well. Loading the chamber of the needle and deciding against injecting in an obvious spot this time. He slipped his shoes off and pulled of his socks, using a steady hand to get the needle between his toes. He pushed the stopper and feeling the almost immediate wave of pleasure that came from the drugs. Sherlock released an obscene low moan under his breath as he felt the toxins taking over him. Heroine relaxed his muscles so that they were loose and his limbs became heavy. The cocaine kept him awake but he knew he would need more. Once he tucked the needle inside the box and reached for the book on his nightstand, needing a surface to pour some of powder down on so he could do a few lines. Rolling up a pound note to create a make-shift straw, he took two generous, fat lines of the white powder.

Sherlock was sitting with his legs crossed together on his bed. He was slightly hunched over as if his back muscles were refusing to fully cooperate, shirt unbuttoned so he felt less restricted. He broke up some of the weed, enough for a joint. He sprinkled a thick pinch of cocaine onto the dried herb before licking the paper and rolling it closed between his thumbs and forefingers. Sherlock stood up and went to his window, turning a fan on to suction the smoke from the room. Lighting the joint and taking a deep, full inhale. It was harsh, harsher than cigarettes because it was unfiltered and he and to stifle himself from creating a cacophony as he choked and sputtered on the first hit. He didn't indulge in marijuana often but he did enjoy it on occasion; it was dull compared to the other drugs. It didn't grant the merciful stillness that heroin did nor did it energize him like the cocaine, marijuana was mellow and made his brain only mildly muddled. Smoking the rest of the joint became easier with each hit, gaging how much smoke he could take into his lungs. Sherlock snuffed it out once it was nothing more than a roach and found himself tapping his fingers against the inner curve of the arch of his foot. Drumming his lithe digits and creating his own beat, erratic in nature and doubtlessly fueled by the upper he had put into the joint. Smoking cocaine was a different high entirely, smoke penetrates the system almost as immediately as injection and right now he was rocketing from the high.

Sherlock got up, starting to do some very necessary cleaning of his immediate area. His room was normally spotless but right now it had a striking resemblance to a garbage heap. There were pastry wrappers and empty cigarette packs strewn haphazardly on the floor and filling his bin. He got rid of the trash and bagged it, taking it down to the main bins. Racing back up the stairs to his flat in under five seconds. Sherlock was a vibrant buzzing ball of energy for a good fifteen minutes. It began to become a bit too much and he decided that he needed to come down. Sneaking back off to his bedroom and preparing the needle again. Mixing uppers and downers was inadvisable to say the least but Sherlock was certain he knew what he was doing. Still, even the most brilliant of minds can make a miscalculation and once he had injected the second dose of heroin within the hour Sherlock realized that he had definitely miscalculated.

His gut wrenched and he reached for the freshly emptied garbage bin, retching into it. Awful, bitter bile flooded up his throat. Sherlock began to dry heave and he grabbed for a bottle of water by his bed and chugged it to get the taste of bile from his mouth. Tossing that up as quickly as he drank it. Too much, he had taken too much. He decided it wasn't going to be enough to kill him, no need to turn himself in by calling emergency but he most definitely felt sick. Pushing the bin away from himself and curling up on the bed, staying on his side so that if he was sick again he would not run the risk of drowning. Closing his eyes to try to block out the sensation of spinning. This was just a minor setback, he told himself, he would just have to be more careful next time.

Sherlock felt heavy, fighting a fustily to remain conscience. The drugged detective drifted off only to be startled awake by a thunderous knock on his door. Darting upright and lunging for the little black box which held his needles, tossing them under the bed. "Who is it?" he groaned towards the door.

"Sherlock…Sherlock it's me. Can I come in?" John's voice answered.

Sherlock could only hope enough time had passed for the smell of marijuana to dissipate. He called back to the door. "You may."

John stepped inside and looked around the room which Sherlock was suddenly very grateful that he cleaned. "You've been sleeping a lot lately." John said looking to his friend who was apparently still in bed in the middle of the day.

"Bored, no reason to be up. No cases to work." Sherlock shrugged lazily.

"Are you sure it's not something more?" John asked curiously as if he knew something.

Sherlock dismissed that idea, John couldn't know. He couldn't know because he didn't see the obvious signs in front of him as per usual. "I'm positive."

"Look, I don't know exactly how stupid you think I am Sherlock but something is wrong with you and I know it." John went from concerned to angry rather quickly.

"Nothing is wrong and I'm sorry that you doubt your own intelligence so much John." Sherlock replied coolly.

John looked like rage was boiling inside of him. "Sherlock I can smell the weed and you look like you're high as a fucking kite."

"Perhaps Mrs. Hudson is up to her herbals again." Sherlock dismissed his suspicions.

"No, it smells like weed right here in this room. And you didn't deny being high." John quickly responded.

Sherlock fell back against his bed. "John, honestly I have nothing to tell you. I don't owe you an explanation just because you came barging into my bedroom."

"You owe me the truth because I'm your friend." The doctor was seething, hissing the last word through his teeth.

"Friend?" Sherlock sat back up right, posturing his fingers into a steeple under his chin. "Tell me John, friends are people who see each other correct? People who spend time talking however inanely just to show affection to one another. How much time have we spent together in the past few months?"

"Sherlock, I know I've been busy but…we're friends even if I'm caught up with something else at the mo-." John sighed being cut off.

"Someone else you mean." Sherlock interjected.

"I'm getting married! I need to spend time with Mary, we have a hundred things to do and I'm sorry if watching you lay about the flat isn't one of them!" John barked back defensively.

Sherlock looked down, clearly wounded and lost for words.

"Sherlock, I didn't mean…look you are important to me. Very important. I'll make up the lost time, you know I will." John's tone had softened.

Sherlock shook his head, finding his voice. "You don't owe me anything John, no more than I owe you an explanation for what I've been doing."

"Doing?" John asked, suspicions rising. "I don't want to make it up to you because I feel I owe you or that I'm obligate. I want to spend time with you. I know I haven't been around and I miss you too, okay?"

"If you're looking for a teary eyed reunion I would rather get back to sleep." Sherlock stared up at the ceiling.

"Don't try and treat me like that Sherlock. You can't get rid of me that easily." John shut the door behind himself, going closer to the bed. He sat down at the foot. "What are you on?"

"Currently coming down from a few things actually. I'm fine. It's not a problem. I can stop any time I want." His voice a bit monotone as he spoke out the clichés, not bothering to even try and fool himself.

"When did it start?" John questioned further.

"A month ago, maybe a month and a half." Sherlock shrugged again.

John shook his head, how hadn't he noticed? How the hell hadn't he noticed for a month or more that Sherlock was using again? "I'm sorry." John whispered.

"Why are you sorry?" Sherlock was suddenly perplexed, expecting anger and accusation but instead there was an apology.

John let out a heaving breath. "I'm sorry that I have been such a bad friend that I didn't even notice that you were using. Sherlock, I know you've been alone here and I just…there's so much to get done before the wedding. I would just call the whole thing off at this point if it wouldn't break Mary's heart, it's such a hassle."

"I wish you would." Sherlock said before he could stop himself.

"You want me to call off the wedding?" John laughed in disbelief. "Why?"

"Never mind." Sherlock was flushed slightly, his normally pale skin turned pink.

"You can't just open a can of worms like that and say never mind." John scoffed.

"And you said you weren't stupid." Sherlock frowned. "Can we go back to talking about the drugs now?" Any conversation was better than why he didn't want John to marry Mary.

"No." John swallowed. "I mean…we can…is it connected. I mean the drugs and you not wanting me to get married…are they connected?" John asked hesitantly.

Sherlock remained silent for several long seconds. "Yes." He decided to answer honestly.

"Why?" John whispered, not accepting guilt for Sherlock's use but still feeling empathy for his friend's pain.

"Does it matter?" Sherlock groaned.

"It does." John replied.

Sherlock again was silent, looking anywhere in the room but at John. He swallowed and felt the unfamiliar stinging of tears in his eyes. Emotion, awful, soul crushing emotion was bubbling inside of him provoked by both the daze of drugs and John looking wounded before him.

John realized without Sherlock having to answer him this time. He felt overwhelmed by his own emotions, wanting to soothe his friend's very apparent heartache. "You love me." He stated more than he asked.

All Sherlock could do was nod, feeling childish in this action. John could not help but notice the tears that started to free themselves from Sherlock's eyes, trailing down the sharp angles of his jawline. John wasn't thinking logically in that moment, he leaned in and kissed Sherlock's tears away. "It's okay…you can feel that way."

"But you don't feel the same. You have Mary, which any sane friend would be fine with." Sherlock swallowed as he did his best to regain his composure even as a heaving sob was begging to be released.

"I knew my friend wasn't exactly sane long before this." John tried to lighten the situation with a joke.

Sherlock frowned further and shook his head. "Please…just call Mycroft and tell him if you must but leave me alone."

"I'm not going to leave you alone." John shook his head as well.

"John, I can't do this. I can't tell you how much I love you just for you to reject m-." Sherlock was cut off this time. He was cut off by John's lips upon his own.

Sherlock whimpered into the kiss, caught off entirely but he got over the initial shock quickly. John was kissing him, his mouth felt so soft and warm and exactly as Sherlock imagined it. The tickle of sparse chin hairs from the doctor's five o'clock shadow grazed Sherlock's smooth skin. John moved one strong hand to cup Sherlock's cheek, running his thumb down the pronounced angle of his jaw.

Sherlock didn't know what to do, he let John control the kiss. He felt John's velvety tongue press past his own lips and entwine with his tongue. Ever a quick study the still drugged man caught on and began to reciprocate the kiss where it was appropriate. Soon they were entangled in a passionate true kiss, drinking each other in. The sound of John's muffled but appreciative sighs sent shivers down Sherlock's spine and straight between his thighs. Sex was something he considered boring and he never had given it much of an effort once he was out of the ravages of hormones that came with adolescence. John had changed his mind in an instant, he was curious now…so very curious. His body felt alive from just snogging, from lips and teeth and tongue tasting each other. He could only imagine what else John might be able to do to him. "Please." Sherlock whimpered as he broke the kiss.

"Shh." John hushed him, knowing that they couldn't stop at just a kiss. Perhaps it was the stress of the wedding combined with the realization that he was losing his friend that caused John to cave into this. Sherlock decided not to over think it, not to question it lest it all be spoiled.

John started to help Sherlock out of his shirt, lips traveling down the curvature of his neck. Sherlock swallowed and closed his eyes, melting into the sensation. "More." He whimpered.

"Yes, more." John agreed as he started to strip Sherlock further. Sherlock didn't have to help him, John seemed just as eager as he was in this moment.

Closing his eyes and humming contently as John's mouth fluttered over his svelte torso. "John." He breathed out the name like it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

Sherlock focused on the teasing touches as nimble fingers undid his trousers and he inhaled sharply in shock as the delicate digits started to fish him free from his pants. "John." He repeated with more of a moan in his voice.

"Just this once." John whispered as his fist wrapped around Sherlock's cock. It was hard already, incredibly interested in being in the doctors grip. "Just because you need to know what you mean to me."

Sherlock whimpered and decided that just once was too good to give up. "Just this once." He agreed.

Before he could piece together how quickly this was moving, John's mouth was wrapped around the head of his aching shaft. No matter how high Sherlock had been in the past he was convinced that nothing had ever felt this wonderful. "You need this don't you? You've been dreaming about this…I have too. I know I shouldn't but if I ever thought you wanted it too…we could have." John whispered as he removed his mouth from the head and began to drag his perfect pink tongue down the length of Sherlock's cock. His tongue was working itself up and down making expert work of licking the sensitive skin to make the detective's dick twitch. Soon he wrapped his mouth back around the head and Sherlock was lost in the ringing pleasure that came with the sensation of sucking in his most intimate places.

It was obscene and it was too much, Sherlock felt it was off. It was still the most erotic experience, orchestrated straight from a fantasy. As that thought entered his mind he realized it was just that, a fantasy. Still he came, hard when the dreamed up depiction of John Watson looked up to meet his eyes as he sucked his cock.

Sherlock felt his head pounding as he returned to consciousness. His pants were wet and uncomfortably sticky with come. He had a wet dream after passing out from the drugs, it had all been a dream. He felt something like disappointment and relief all at once but he wasn't allowed to even his open his eyes and dwell on it before he heard someone clearing their throat in his doorway. Sherlock opened his eyes to see Mycroft standing there, a pronounced frown pulling at the corner of his lips. The black box which had been thrown under his bed in the dream was in fact still out in the open in all its glory, needles visible. "Well, aren't we a sight." Mycroft said after a moment. "How long has this been going on?"

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh. He was discovered, there was no way of going around it. This would not be a dream sadly.

"Answer my question. How long Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice stern and raised.

"A month." Sherlock answered flatly.

Mycroft seemed to be digesting that information for a moment. "And the list?" he asked.

Sherlock took the piece of paper from his nightstand and scribbled down the drugs he had taken, giving it to his brother.

"How easily you lose your way." Mycroft spoke solemnly, stepping into the room and starting to pack a bag for Sherlock.

Sherlock knew he wouldn't be sent to rehab this time, it was likely he would be holed up in Mycroft's house until he was sober. "Don't forget socks." He said apathy in his voice as he laid still on his bed, waiting until it was time to go with his brother to be reprimanded and rehabilitated.


End file.
